Casting Stones

I gape and stare at an outcast beauty, pointing and sneering at her swollen belly. Her father is absent, her heart is shattered. She’s no worry of mine, as if it mattered.

I see a man passed out along the way. He reeks of what he used to drown his sorrow away, bottle after bottle, and day after day. No matter his story, I judge and condemn. I don’t care to know where this man has been.

I gaze with disgust at a man whose heart is starved. Down each of his arms, a novel is carved. Stories of pain, betrayal, and hate, are etched into his flesh and tell of his fate.

I sneer at the prostitute who gave herself away knowing that someday she’ll be forced to pay. How dare she perform such revolting behavior! It’s no care of mine that she longs for a Savior.

But...

I'm the heart of the girl with the swollen belly. I forgot I was loved, I sought protection and misjudged. The voices of the world I let woo me away from my Jesus who loves me and holds me each day.

I am the one who is drunken and alone. I neglect the stench of my own alcohol, dripping with judgment as I watch others fall. I choose to be numb from all of my pain, I don’t even acknowledge each new iron chain.

I am the one with the etched and carved arms. I hide my scars beneath the sleeves of religious clichés, “I’m ok’s,” and masquerades. I use knives of self-pity, shame, and past sin. I refuse to let the healing grace of Jesus come in.

I am the woman who gave herself away. I’m the prostitute you see as you go about your way. I search for something that gives me power, refusing to believe I’m His beautiful flower. I’m unfaithful beyond any measure of belief and care not how I cause my LORD grief.

May the stones I hold drop from my hands. May my humbled heart be unable to stand. I’ll collapse to my knees, dropping stones as I fall, for I am the one who is most broken of all. 

Picture from: http://jackielrobinson.com